Cowboy's Texas Rescue

by Beth Cornelison

  “What happened to the coat I gave you?” But he knew the answer.

  “The convict took it,” she confirmed. “H-he stole your t-truck.”

  Jake gritted his teeth, fury and frustration coursing through him. Reaching behind him he felt for his pistol and the police sidearm he’d lifted from the convict. Both were gone. “Hell.”

  Drawing a slow breath, he focused on the situation at hand and the more immediate need to get them out of the trunk and warmed up. Based on his companion’s shivering and state of undress, she was well on her way to hypothermia. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Ch-Chelsea Harris.” Her voice cracked with emotion and from the cold.

  Compunction and compassion twisted inside him. He was cold, but she had to be miserable. And if he’d been more thorough ensuring the area around his prisoner was secure, they wouldn’t be in this mess. Hell and damnation.

  “Hi, Chelsea,” he said in a calm, reassuring tone. “I’m Jake Connelly, and I’m going to get us out of here. I need you to trust me. Okay?”

  She hesitated, her skepticism obvious in the silence, then she whispered, “Okay.”

  “First things first. I’m going to chafe some warmth into your arms and legs. Your shivering means you’re dangerously low on body heat. I’m not groping you. Got it?”

  “Y-yeah.”

  Jake wrapped his hands around her arm, which was frighteningly cool to his touch, and vigorously rubbed her skin. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Not as b-bad as he hurt you.”

  “Meaning he did hurt you.” Jake pressed his mouth in a tight line of disgust and fury.

  “He h-hit me once. Gave me a z-zap from the stun g-gun. Grabbed my hair. S-stuff like that.” She said it as if getting jolted by a stun gun was nothing, but he heard the telltale warble of fear in her voice.

  He muttered an invective under his breath.

  “Hey, w-we’re alive,” she said, putting steel in her voice. “That’s all I c-care about.”

  “True that.” In his head, he began working through the possibilities for getting them out of the trunk. “Does your bra have an underwire?”

  “Wh-what?”

  He chuckled under his breath. “That sounded skeevy, didn’t it? Sorry. I need something I can use it to pick the lock and get us out of here.”

  “Oh. Uh...yeah. It d-does, but how—”

  “Permission to manhandle your bra?”

  Chapter 3

  Brady pressed a hand to his throbbing leg. The duct tape bandage the cowboy had fashioned over his wound had worked for a while, but fresh blood was seeping from under the tape. As his adrenaline receded, his pain grew, along with his impatience.

  Gusts of wind battered the pickup and made it difficult to control the truck. He swerved as if he were drunk and battled to stay in his lane. The last thing he needed was to let erratic driving draw the attention of a passing cop.

  Squinting through the windshield, he spotted a farmhouse ahead and tried to remember how far the GPS voice had said they were from the brunette’s house. Damn it, he should’ve brought the GPS with him, but he’d gotten in a hurry.

  Get a grip, man! You’ve come too far, risked too much to screw up now! Brady squeezed the steering wheel. He refused to go back to prison. Confinement was sucking the life from him. He’d eat a bullet before he let them cage him up again.

  He pulled into the driveway of the farmhouse and surveyed the scene. An old pickup was parked out front, and a small stable sat a hundred yards or so behind the house. A black-and-white dog noticed his arrival and started barking from behind the fence of its pen. He glowered at the dog, knowing the ruckus was likely to attract unwanted attention.

  Sure enough, he’d just cut the engine, intending to take a look around, when an old man stepped out of the stable and sent a curious look his way. Brady cursed under his breath and pulled the cowboy’s gun onto his lap. He rolled down the truck window and waited as the old man ambled closer.

  “Can I help you?” the white-haired man asked.

  Brady sent him a friendly smile and curled a finger around the trigger of the pistol. “I’m afraid I’m lost. I’m looking for a friend’s house.” Brady called an image to mind of the brunette’s key chain, dangling from the Caddy’s ignition. The miniature Texas license plate clipped to the ring read Chelsea. “Chelsea said her parents were on vacation, and she was house-sitting for them. I’m supposed to meet her for dinner, but I think I missed a turn.”

  The man’s face brightened. “You must mean the Harrises. I heard they were taking a cruise or some such.” The old man walked a few steps closer. “Their place is the next driveway on the left. About four miles, I think.” He grinned. “Nice girl, that Chelsea. How did you meet her?”

  Brady shoved down his rising impatience. “Mutual friend.” He jerked a nod. “Thanks for the directions.”

  He moved his hand from the gun to the ignition key, then hesitated. The old man could identify him if the police did a house-by-house search. He glanced back at the old codger, who wore a bright orange hunter’s cap, and his brain started clicking.

  Wrapping his hand around the cowboy’s pistol again, he called to the man, “You’re a hunter?”

  The old man flashed a crooked grin. “Yep. Have been since I was six, and my daddy took me deer hunting near Tyler.”

  Brady smiled. A hunter would have rifles, shotguns, maybe even a bow. Weapons he might need.

  “Good to know.” He popped the driver’s door open and slid out, keeping the pistol hidden from the man’s view.

  The old guy frowned. “Whatcha doing? Shouldn’t you be gettin’ to the Harrises’ before this storm hits?”

  “I’ll be heading out soon enough. Anyone inside? A wife? Kids?”

  “Who wants to know?” The man’s gaze dropped to the bloodstains on Brady’s leg, and he narrowed a suspicious look toward him. “Who are you? What happened to you?”

  Brady swung the gun up. “I’ll ask the questions. Who’s inside?”

  The man tensed when he saw the pistol, then gave Brady a defiant glare. “What do you want, boy? You think you can frighten me with that thing? I saw combat in World War II. Spent weeks under fire in a trench in France. I’ve already survived hell on earth.” The man straightened and squared his shoulders. “You’re nothing but a punk. I’m not scared of you.”

  Brady sneered at him. “Maybe you should be, gramps.”

  * * *

  Permission to manhandle her bra? A strangled sound rose in Chelsea’s throat. Humiliation and modesty warred with her common sense and will to survive. The cowboy’s request made sense. His idea was inspired, logical.

  But she couldn’t help the prickle of self-consciousness. Bad enough that her nearly naked size 14 body was pressed intimately against his male perfection. Awkward. Stripping in front of the convict and being discovered by Jake wearing only her skivvies had been mortifying enough, especially knowing the extra weight she’d gained in the past year gave her love handles and unsightly cellulite on her thighs.

  Maybe if you hadn’t let your appearance go— Todd’s voice echoed in her head and lanced her heart.

  “Chelsea?” Jake said, still waiting for her answer.

  She swallowed hard, and mustering her practicality like a shield, she shoved down the twinges of embarrassment. “All right. Should I take it off?”

  “Let me see what I can do with it on. I’d hate for you to lose even the tiny scrap of protection from the cold it’s giving you. Hold still, okay?”

  She tried not to move, but when his warm fingers slid under her bra and nudged the side of her breast, a current of sensation, a hyperawareness of the über-sexy cowboy’s touch charged through her. And she flinched. She bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a moan of pleasure.

  Oh, Chelsea...so inappropriate under the circumstances.

  Their lives had been threatened, they were trapped in a car trunk, and she was literally freezing to death. But, oh, heavens, the brus
h of his fingers on her bare skin, the press of his hard chest spooned next to her back, the juxtaposition of his groin against her tush...

  How could she not react to him?

  He tugged on the fabric at the end of the underwire, flexing and twisting the material until the wire poked through. He pulled the wire, but it held fast.

  Chelsea’s breath hitched in her chest as he slid his hand around to the other side of her demi-cup and repeated the process.

  “I usually don’t p-put out like this on a first date,” she said with a nervous chuckle. “You owe me d-dinner and a movie when we g-get out of here, pal.”

  He gave a short laugh, his breath fanning the back of her neck and sending a thrill to her core. “You got it, darlin’,” he said with a lazy Texas drawl.

  She heard the pop of a seam, then felt the tug, as the underwire slid free, and the vibration at her back as he gave a low growl of satisfaction. Maybe it was wrong for such simple things to turn her on, given the gravity of their situation, but tell that to her crackling nerve endings. The cowboy had her every skin cell charged and her heart racing.

  “Got it,” he said. “I don’t suppose there’s a flashlight in here, is there?”

  “N-not that I could find. Wh-what about a cell

  ph-phone?”

  He jerked. “You have a cell phone?”

  “I— No. I w-was hoping you did.”

  His muscles relaxed again, radiating his disappointment. “No. I left mine in my truck, charging. If Brady stole my truck, then he has my phone, too.”

  Chelsea’s pulse tripped. “Brady? You knew that guy?”

  “Naw. I heard the news reports about his escape. I only realized who he was after I saw the orange jumpsuit stuffed under the seat. By then Brady had pulled his gun and...well, you heard the shootout.”

  “Yeah.” She shivered again, remembering the echoing shots, imagining the carnage that could have happened just feet from her, fearing a bullet would pierce the trunk and hit her.

  “Okay, I’ll go by feel. Hang on, now. I’ve got to work around you.” His body canted closer to hers, his arms shifting and reaching past her for the trunk lock.

  She tried to give him room to work, but her legs had grown stiff and cramped, and her arms were almost numb from the cold. While before she’d been certain she would die, either by the convict’s hand or from exposure, Jake’s presence, his level-headed thinking, gave her a morsel of hope, which she clung to with both hands.

  “H-have you ever picked a lock before?”

  He grunted. “More than once.”

  “Oh? Is b-breaking and entering a hobby of y-yours?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “Let’s just say picking locks comes in handy at times in my line of work.”

  She frowned. “A-and what line of w-work would that be?”

  The rattle of metal answered her, but Jake said nothing.

  A draft blew through the confines of the trunk as the wind outside gusted harder, and Chelsea couldn’t stop the shudder that rolled through her. Thanks to the darkness that surrounded them, she couldn’t tell if Jake was making any progress on jimmying the lock or not. But for the first time since the escaped con had grabbed her and shoved the gun in her ribs, Chelsea believed she might actually survive this ordeal. Thanks to Jake. What he did for a living didn’t matter in the scheme of things if he could get them out of the car.

  While Jake worked on the lock, Chelsea tried to steer her thoughts away from the biting cold long enough to strategize. Before now, she’d been so focused on not getting shot, then on staying warm and getting out of the trunk, that she hadn’t thought beyond those threats. With the real possibility of escaping the trunk at hand, she needed to make a plan. She was determined to stay positive, think clearly and not give up. She could get out of this pickle if she didn’t panic.

  Step one: How would she get home if Ethyl was out of gas? While waiting for Jake to wake up, she’d heard a few cars pass by, but increasingly fewer people were out on the road as the storm closed in. She was in her bra and panties. Her parents’ house was still at least six miles away.

  The weight of despondency sat on her chest, and she doggedly shook off the negativity.

  “Come on,” Jake grumbled under his breath as he worked.

  “C-can I help?” she asked, her teeth chattering.

  “No.” He moved his hands back to her arms and rubbed her skin briskly again. “The lock is sticking, probably because of rust, maybe ice, but I’ll get it open.”

  Seconds later she heard a click, and Jake released a sigh.

  “Well?” She held her breath.

  “I think the locking pin moved, but the underwire broke off.” He banged on the lid, but nothing happened.

  Chelsea battled the disappointment that tried to swell in her chest. Stay positive.

  “Watch out,” Jake said, pushing her legs aside with his hand. “Give me some room.”

  She scooted as far back from the lock as she could. “What—”

  She heard a thud, then another, and the trunk hook bent slightly so that a crack of light and chilly air seeped in. In the weak light that filtered inside, she could see Jake bring his knees to his chest, then kick out with an abbreviated thrust. The heel of his boot hit the lock once, twice...and suddenly the lid sprang open. Chelsea gasped as a blast of icy wind swept over her and relief flooded her veins.

  “Hallelujah,” she whispered.

  Jake rolled his head to face her, grinning. “And amen.”

  He smacked a kiss on her forehead, then grabbed the car frame to pull himself out of the trunk in one swift motion. As he jumped to the pavement, he clutched a hand to his temple, and she remembered the blow to the head he’d taken as he collapsed from the stun gun.

  “Are you okay?”

  He raised a startled look to her. “Me? You’re the one turning into a human popsicle.”

  “I saw you grab your head. You hit it pretty hard when you fell.”

  He waved away her concern with a flick of his hand. “I’ll be fine. Right now we have to get something for you to wear.”

  She climbed out of the car and tested her cramped legs’ ability to hold her upright. Weak, but she stayed vertical. Spotting his cowboy hat in the trunk, she reached for it, then turned to hand it to him.

  He took the hat but jammed it on her head instead of his. “You need this more than I do.”

  Admittedly, without the trunk’s protection from the wind or Jake’s body heat cuddled near her, her cold factor had risen exponentially. Along with her awkward, self-conscious factor. Being nearly naked with a stranger in a dark trunk paled to being nearly naked with a hunky cowboy outside in the light of day.

  Jake raked his gaze over her, and he frowned.

  Her cheeks stinging with humiliation, she wrapped her arms around her middle, both fighting off the cold and hoping to hide her love handles from his scrutiny.

  He marched past her and opened Ethyl’s back door. She thought about the horrid orange jumpsuit the escapee had been wearing, and her stomach roiled. Even as cold as she was, the idea of wearing the creepy killer’s prison castoffs disgusted her. But when he backed out of the car shaking his head, she knitted her brow. “The orange jumpsuit?”

  Jake shrugged and headed toward her with his hands upturned. “He must have taken it with him. It was evidence of his trail after all. So...unless you have an emergency blanket or some spare clothes stored in there...”

  Chelsea heaved a shivering sigh. “No.”

  Already large snowflakes danced around her head and dusted the ground.

  Her shoulders slumped. “Now what? The car is out of gas.”

  Jake stopped in front of her and started unbuttoning his shirt. “For starters, you take my clothes.”

  She jerked her chin up and met his gaze. “B-but then you’ll freeze. I can’t—”

  “So be it.” He stripped off his long-sleeved chambray shirt and dumped it in her hands. “A gentleman doesn’t let
a lady go without.”

  Tears of gratitude prickled her eyes. Being a good Samaritan, stopping to help the stranded driver, could have cost Jake his life, and he was still making sacrifices on her behalf.

  “Th-thank you.” Her voice cracked as she wrapped the shirt around her and jammed her arms in the sleeves. The fabric still held his body heat and traces of his woodsy scent. A quiver spun through her that had nothing to do with the chilly weather.

  When she glanced up from buttoning his shirt, he’d kicked off his boot and shoved his jeans to his feet. Her breath backed up in her lungs. The sight of his broad bare chest, tautly muscled legs and clingy boxer briefs rooted her to her spot. Oh, Texas, the man was sexy!

  “Here.” He extended the jeans to her, rousing her from her gawking stupor, and a new level of awkward reality slapped her. No way would his jeans fit her size 14 butt. If she tried to zip his jeans and couldn’t, she might as well rent a lighted sign with arrows that blinked Chubby.

  “I, um... Keep those. You n-need to wear s-something.”

  He shook his head. “I wouldn’t feel right wearing them if you were—”

  “Jake.” She grabbed his arm. “I... God, this is embarrassing.” She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “They won’t fit me.” She exhaled harshly, creating a white cloud that slowly dissipated, along with her pride. “I’m too fat for them.”

  Jake scowled, his gaze wandering over her as he shook the jeans out to put them back on. “If you say so.”

  Chelsea turned away, biting the inside of her cheek and choking down the burn of humiliation that climbed her throat. Even Todd’s cruel bluntness when he’d dumped her hadn’t stung this much. She knew she shouldn’t be so sensitive, shouldn’t care what Jake thought of her appearance. She’d probably never see him again after today. But her waist size was a sore spot for her. And not just because Todd had used her weight gain as an excuse to break up with her.

  The extra pounds reminded her of a dark time in her life, long months spent at the side of a hospital bed, weeks of eating fast food and junk snacks from a vending machine so that she could stretch extra minutes from the day. She’d turned to comfort food when she thought she might lose her mother. The added pounds represented grief and a loss of control in her life that she was still struggling to reclaim.